


Can't I Adore You?

by loubuttons



Series: Stark Raving Mad [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Crying, Gen, Influenza, Insomnia, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Platonic Cuddling, Sick Character, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 11:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17283563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loubuttons/pseuds/loubuttons
Summary: The ache in Peter’s back is reminiscent of the time a bus slammed into his side.





	Can't I Adore You?

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off an anonymous prompt a friend couldn't fill. If you sent it in, I hope you like it.

The ache in Peter’s back is reminiscent of the time a bus slammed into his side. Every crackling, laborious breath is a punishment. A pathetic moan floats into the open air. He doesn’t want to complain, but the sound drips from his mouth like the bile crusting his lips. 

 

Peter’s been awake since yesterday morning. He felt fine during the day, if not tired. Recklessly, he insisted on patrolling, despite Karen insisting he had a fever. Since stumbling into Tony’s living room five hours ago, he’s throw up seven times. The tax on his muscles is more than enough penance. With every heave, he slips further into misery. When he struggles back to the couch dizzy and exhausted, his bones groan in protest. 

 

“You throw up again?” Tony grunts without opening his eyes. 

 

Peter didn’t ask him to stay in the living room -- in fact, he’d rather he didn’t. But he’s slowly learning to cope with Tony’s attention. In a magazine that Peter read as a kid, it said Tony Stark has a “highly addictive personality”. Sometimes, he wonders if he gets addicted to people. 

 

“Yeah,” 

 

He wishes he were home, in his own bed. Gingerly, he lowers himself onto the couch, struggling to leave his empty stomach undisturbed. He almost fell asleep on the bathroom floor. Now that he’s on the couch, every joint shrieks. Trying to curl up and shut out Tony’s concern doesn’t work; Peter can almost hear him worrying. Blessedly, his stomach settles, but his back and head deny him any rest. 

 

“If you threw up again, you have to drink something,” 

 

“No, Mr. Stark,” Mumbling sets his throat on fire, “I’ll just throw it back up,” 

 

“You’re sweating  _ and  _ vomiting  _ and  _ crying. I’m not letting you get any more dehydrated,” 

 

The exhaustion is beating away the pain. He’s caught in an agonizing haze of barely-awake, too miserable to rest. 

 

“I don’t want to throw up again. I just want to go to sleep,” 

 

“Yeah, well, you won’t get better without fluids,” 

 

“I won’t get better without sleep either,” 

 

When Tony doesn't answer, Peter hopes he’s won. He’s almost asleep, until a soft, cool touch disrupts him. It has to Tony’s hands -- only ice cubes are as cold. He finches awake. 

 

“Here,” Tony says, his voice like he’s underwater, “Just a couple sips,” 

 

Sighing at the sports drink in his hands, Peter stares at the bright red liquid, “No, thanks,” 

 

“Then I’m putting you in the MedBay and calling a doctor,” 

 

“I don’t need--”

 

“Shut up. This isn’t an argument,” 

 

Peter isn’t surprised to see intense regret capture Tony’s eyes. Aware that his mentor doesn’t have to be awake, is only here to offer comfort and care, Peter obediently sips the drink. He can’t deny that instant relief possesses him. If it weren’t for Tony pulling the bottle away, he would’ve gulped down it all. 

 

“Feel better?” 

 

“Yeah,” 

 

Nodding, Tony goes back to the kitchen. Peter lets himself drift, and doesn’t start when a damp cloth mops at his neck. 

 

“Let me help, Kid,” He must think Peter can’t hear -- his voice is never this tender, “I know I’m not who you want right now but…” 

 

He trails off with a sigh. Before Peter can pry his eyelids apart, sleep comes. 

 

Like clockwork, his blinks awake thirty minutes later. Sure that he’ll vomit but unable to run, Peter slowly unlocks his joints. Each movement sends him closer to the edge. He vomits once in the hallway, leaning against the wall; he only makes it as far as the sink before more bile chokes him. Trembling, he sinks to the ground. What’s the point of tripping back to the couch, past a puddle of puke? Weary, he slides further down the wall until his face is against the floor. Peter closes his eyes. Shivering, his tries to ignore the pounding in his head. Despite persistent pain, he falls asleep. 

 

When he wakes up, he’s on the couch. Haltingly, he rolls onto his side. If he walked here, he doesn’t remember it. Tony isn’t in the living room with him. Peter tells himself he’s glad he finally gave up and went to bed. But a dull, phantom ache in his chest at the thought forces his heart into his throat. He doesn’t know why he gives into the childish instinct to cry -- maybe it’s because he hasn’t slept for more than an hour straight. How it’s still night, Peter doesn’t know.  Slightly out of his mind with exhaustion, dehydration, and pain, he lies motionless, waiting for the nausea to return. It doesn’t, but Tony does. 

 

“What’s up, Buttercup?” 

 

Neither of them talk about Peter’s wet lashes. He can pretend the tissues are for his running nose. He shrugs and doesn’t complain when Tony moves Peter’s feet into his own lap. 

 

Holding out a glass full of ice cubes, he says, “Got you another present. Ice might stay down easier,” 

 

Peter’s so thirsty, he doesn’t bother fighting it. The ice washes away the acrid taste in his mouth and soothes the burning ache on his tongue. Sadly, Tony only allows him one at a time, refusing him more than five altogether. 

 

“I thought you want me hydrated,” Peter sighs, annoyed with the regulation.

 

“Keep those down for more than half an hour and you can have more. You drank too fast last time -- my bad,” 

 

“Oh, hey,” Peter says, suddenly alert, “I threw up in the hallway,” 

 

“Yeah, I know,” 

 

“I’ll go clean it, hold on,” His arms shake, as he tries to push himself upward. 

 

Firmly, Tony places a hand in the center of his chest, “Slow your roll, Butterbean. I already took care of it,” 

 

“Ugh,” Peter scoffs, collapsing into the cushions, “Gross. Sorry, I would’ve taken care of it,” 

 

“Yeah,” Laughing, Tony pats his ankle, “Sure, Kid,” 

 

“Really, Mr. Stark. I could’ve cleaned it up,” 

 

“Really, Mr. Parker,” Tony says, mocking his earnest tone, “I don’t care that much about keeping my hands clean. You should’ve  _ smelled _ some of the stuff that came out of this little beauty in the early days,” Gracefully, he taps a finger across the arc reactor surface. 

 

Unable to think of a more elegant reply, Peter laughs, “Ew,” 

 

“You think it’s gross and you weren’t even there,” 

 

“Sometimes I forget that that’s actually like...in your chest, Mr. Stark,” 

 

Sleep deprivation loosens his tongue. He can’t even feel embarrassed by the invasive comment. Tony sighs and stares down at his glowing chest. The light’s become a comforting presence during this never-ending night. Letting his head fall back onto the cushions, his icy hands circle Peter’s ankle. 

 

“Me too,” 

 

Maybe they’re both tired. 

 

“Has it been thirty minutes yet?” 

 

Tony rolls his neck to look into Peter’s hopeful eyes, “Does it feel like it’s been thirty minutes?” 

 

“Yeah,” 

 

“Fine,” 

 

They let the sound of Peter sucking ice cubes be the only sound. Tony sinks further into the couch. 

 

“Do you want to share my blanket?” Peter’s voice soft, so as not to disturb his own peace. 

 

“Sure,” 

 

It isn’t long enough for both of them as they are, so he presses into the back of the couch, letting Tony lie beside him. He hadn’t realized how hot he is until Tony’s cold arm touches his. Wordlessly, Peter places Tony’s frozen fingers to his own neck. 

 

Slurring, Tony asks, “What’re you doing?” 

“Warming up your hands and cooling myself down,” 

 

“Weird,” He hums, placing his head atop Peter’s greasy curls. 

 

“No, it’s smart,” 

 

“Be quiet, I’m trying to go to sleep,” 

 

Despite his own instructions, Tony asks, “How’s your stomach?” 

 

“I don’t know,” He answers, “I’ll probably throw up on you later,” 

 

“That’s fine,” 

 

As he drifts off, Peter feels his mouth twitch. Maybe it is. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think with comments/kudos. 
> 
> My tumblr is @loubuttons. Come talk to me about anything, I love making new friends!


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